Page 62 of Property of Max
I hope Max comes and saves me.
I like the way he smiles.
Chapter Seventeen
Max
“This explains how he’s been staying under the radar,” Spike says, flipping through the papers Heidi gave us. Most are images that simply show visits that Cortez made to Chris’s house. Others are of printed manifests Heidi downloaded from Chris’s computer.
“And why none of the missing women have been found,” Maverick adds darkly. “He’s been using his shiny new shipping business to move his victims around without anyone asking questions.”
“Do you know what ports he’s running through?” Foster asks, already typing furiously on his laptop.
“According to these manifests,” Spike says, tapping the papers, “he’s cycling shipments through Mexicali and San Diego. But the ones marked with red ink…they don’t match up with any legitimate cargo.”
“Ghost loads,” Bones growls. “Cover shipments. That’s where the girls are.”
The air in the room goes ice cold, heavy with rage. My fists clench, my mind locked on one person.
Bree.
Spike looks up from the folder, his voice low but hard. “Foster, can you hack into their software and see if there’s been a shipment out in the past few hours?”
I hate the implications of what he’s saying. There’s a good chance that Cortez has already shipped Bree somewhere across the border.
Somewhere that it would take me weeks, if not months, to find her.
“Already on it,” Foster says. “There’s been no shipments since yesterday and no scheduled shipments until the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ve got someone sweeping the warehouse now,” Maverick adds. “So far, no signs of activity.”
Tank leans forward, arms folded tight. “We already know Cortez doesn’t own property in Palm Springs. At least not under his name. Foster, did you find any connections here?”
Foster scowls at his screen. “Didn’t even know he bought out half of Campton’s Shipping until recently. The name on record is Marcy Baldwin. No ties to Cortez that I can see.”
“What about Muerte?” I cut in. “He handled the dirty work. People don’t even know for sure if he’s dead. My bet? Cortez is still running his assets.”
The room falls silent. Foster’s head snaps up, eyes wide.
“Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” he mutters, shaking his head as he dives back into the laptop.
I lean forward, my voice rough. “Because we’ve all been thinking too damn small. Cortez doesn’t operate on paper. He operates in shadows. And Muerte’s assets? They’re the perfect cover. Ghost businesses. Fake owners. Nobody asking questions.”
“Damn,” Spike growls, scrubbing a hand over his face. “If that’s true, then Bree could be in any one of a dozen stash houses, warehouses, or hell…locked in some fucking basement.”
The thought rips through me like barbed wire. I force my fists to unclench before I punch a hole through the table. “Then we find which one. I don’t give a fuck if it means tearing this city apart brick by brick.”
“Wait.” Foster freezes, his eyes narrowing at the screen. “There’s something here. A property deed that traces back to one of Muerte’s shell companies. It’s in Palm Springs. Ruraloutskirts. No utilities on file, no traffic in or out for the last six months. But the deed was quietly renewed two weeks ago.”
“Bingo,” Maverick says, his tone flat and deadly. “That’s where he’s keeping her.”
“Not just her,” Bones rumbles, his jaw like stone. “If Cortez has been using Muerte’s old shit, that place could be holding all the missing women.”
The air shifts…heavier, darker, but sharper too. A room full of predators finally catching the scent of blood.
“No…remember,” I snap, jaw tight. “The shipping manifest showed those women were likely already moved. This place won’t be where they end up forever.”
Foster doesn’t blink. “Exactly. That’s the point. This site is the staging area. The safe room where victims are held until a ghost load moves them out.”
